neglectful of that. Making it moist.”
“I’m going to take my brother’s advice and stop the food puns there. But I figure we could use some extra carbs to soak up five courses of wine.”
“Six. I included a dessert course.”
“I hate dessert wine.”
“Trust me with this one? You’ll like it.”
“You have no idea what I like.”
I run my fingers up the stem again. But this time, her eyes stay glued to mine.
“I’m learning,” she replies steadily. “I’m good at reading the room. Good at reading people.”
“Oh? And what kind of book am I?”
The gleam in her eyes darkens. “I’m not sure yet.”
Her eyes keep flicking to my fingers. The ones wrapped around the elegant stem of my wineglass.
I gently glide them up the stem. Then I pick up the glass and bring it to my lips.
Time to get down to business.
Closing my eyes, I do my best to ignore the heaviness in my groin and focus on the wine instead.
I inhale. My nostrils sting at the immediate hit of alcohol. Behind that, I smell burnt sugar, an almost sticky strawberry note that brings to mind the kind of old, gooey candy you’d get at Grandma’s house.
Emma sips, taking the lead, and I follow. Bubbles wash over my tongue. I wrinkle my nose. Oh, yeah, that sticky sweetness is there, and it is gross. Gotta be something young and cheap.
“You’re smiling,” Emma says, swallowing. “You know this one?”
“I’m smiling because your pick is downright awful. Reminds me of the crap I’d duct tape to my hands in college.”
Emma cocks a brow. “You duct taped bottles of sparkling wine to your hands in college?”
“You’ve clearly never played Edward Forty Hands. It was forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor, actually, but it tasted the same.”
“Right.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, still smiling. Like she knows something I don’t. “How about you save all your answers for the end? Make a note on your phone about what you think each wine is. Varietal, vintage, and location.”
No need. I make a mental note—gotta be Prosecco, two or three years old, Italy—and raise my hand for the next round.
Emma’s arm shoots out. She grabs my forearm, the heat of her touch seeping through the sleeve of my jacket, and guides it back down to the table.
Her grip is firm. Confident. So is her voice when she says, “This is my tasting, Beauregard. I call the shots.”
My cock stands at attention as my vision goes red.
Who the hell does Emma think she is?
And since when does she call me Beauregard?
“Keep it moving,” I grunt, slugging what’s left of the sparkling.
Emma’s paired it with a winter kale, Manchego, and chili dusted pecan salad. We eat while we wait for the next pour. I can’t help but notice how she eats like a European, fork in her left hand, knife in her right, and every time she takes a bite her lips linger on the tines of her fork. Gliding over them slowly as she savors every morsel.
When she moans, my knife slips against my plate and almost gouges my eye out.
“Wow,” she says, shaking her head appreciatively. “We gotta give our compliments to Chef Katie. The play on texture in this salad is just—I mean, it’s on a whole other level. The crunchy heat of the pecans with the creamy cheese and the tang of that warm bacon vinaigrette? Kill me now and I’d die happy.”
There are two types of foodies in this world: those who like good food because they can post pictures of it on Instagram, and those who treasure food because they appreciate the art and effort and heart involved in creating dishes like this.
Emma’s clearly the latter. Her phone’s nowhere to be seen. She’s sensitive to the most minute of flavors, brow furrowed as she chews thoughtfully. Eyes bright, like a light’s been turned on inside her. Fully absorbed in the moment. The flavors. The feel of a shared meal.
Can’t remember the last time I sat down with someone who radiated intelligent passion like this. Who wasn’t putting on a front, a fake face.
Makes me realize how fake my smiles can be sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.
“I hear you feed your staff,” she says, making me blink. Only then do I realize I’ve been staring at her. I look up and catch Hank staring at her too, hovering just out of arm’s reach.
Looking away, I shove a forkful of kale into my mouth. If anyone can make this leafy shit delicious,